


Sonny Boy

by TellMeNoAgain



Series: Roaring Hot [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Noir, Dark Harley, Dark Tony, Dubious Consent, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, F/M, M/M, Mental Instability, Mob Boss Tony Stark, Mob-Type Violence, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, Polyamory, dark bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-04-23 00:47:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22229284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: Part 4 of the "Tony Stark is an insane 1920's Mob Boss and there's sex everywhere" fic, which, okay, SOME OF YOU ARE ASKING FOR MORE.  I'll write more as long as you ask for it, ya crazy mooks.Adoption Saturday is here!  Yay!  One big really friendly, kinda crazy mob family, at last!
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Harley Keener/Peter Parker, Harley Keener/Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Harley Keener/Steve Rogers, Harley Keener/Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Harley Keener, James "Bucky" Barnes/Peter Parker, James "Bucky" Barnes/Peter Parker/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov/Tony Stark, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Steve Rogers, Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Series: Roaring Hot [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1591804
Comments: 76
Kudos: 346





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the amazing mindwiped and jf4m, THANK YOU SO SO SO MUCH. I'm sorry if you now need to clean up your soul. I'll... I'll pay for the cleaning, just get me the receipts.
> 
> If you've read darkfic before, proceed, mine is pretty tame so far (later chapters may get worse).
> 
> If you HAVEN'T read darkfic, let's have a quick chat about the genre. Darkfics are full of dubious consent, even abuse. This one will skirt the edges of that second option. There will be dubiously consentful sex, which you will be able to interpret either direction, your choice. There will be period-appropriate racism, sexism, all kinds of -ism. There will be prostitution and drugs and a bunch of violence, including strong corporal punishment and what looks like domestic abuse to me. It's hard to say, because the victim sure seems fine with it, but it also might be some heavy gaslighting. Because I know underage squicks so many people, Peter will be of age when the sex starts, but that doesn't mean that the characters aren't going to mess with him (and turning 18 is not a magic wand for sexual relationships to be healthy). Darkfic is fun because it's not reality and it can let you have some nervous experiences without actually being endangered. Please proceed with your comfort level. You can email me at tellmenoagainplease@gmail.com if you want to check in about specific triggers.

When they get back to the mansion, they head straight up to Mr. Stark’s suite. Steve is sitting there with Pepper on the sofas, but Natasha is gone. Peter can’t hide the wince as he follows Mr. Stark into the room and Steve frowns immediately, sitting up straight. “Take off them shoes, kid,” he orders, standing, pushing Peter down onto the couch.

“It’s just blisters, Steve,” Peter protests, as he’s been protesting _ all week_. Pepper makes a pained sound, but is too busy kissing Mr. Stark in greeting to add anything.

“Yeah, it’s just blisters the doc said you was to keep offa,” says Steve sternly, and Peter blushes. “Don’t think as he cleared you for shoes yet, neither.”

“Mr. Stark said-” says Peter hotly.

“Mr. Stark knows best,” agrees Steve, “except where I didn’t hear you saying anything back to him with the information that the doc said you was barely cleared for them slippers. Where did you two hoof it to, got you limping like this?” He eases the first boot off after smacking Peter’s hands away. Peter blows out an annoyed breath.

“Went for a walk,” says Bucky, entering the room on this. “Mr. Stark decided to show him the start of the Tower.”

“Gonna be bigger than Chrysler’s,” comments Mr. Stark, eyebrows and mouth twitching at Peter. Peter smiles back at him, rolling his eyes because he’s _ fine_, it’s _ blisters_, Steve is _ cracked. _ Mr. Stark clearly understands, and that eases some of the annoyance at Steve and Harley.

“Picked up some new ones,” comments Steve in disgust, having peeled back Peter’s hose and dropped it on the couch. 

“New shoes,” Peter reminds him. “It’s _ fine_, Steve, you don’t get new shoes without blisters.”

“Actually,” says Bucky calmly, “you do. When they fit right. Which all of yours will, after Pepper gets done with you.” Pepper murmurs agreement, adding, “Not soon enough, sorry Peter.”

This seems to ease the tension in Steve some as he starts working on the next shoe. “Well, there’s that,” he concedes. “Stay offa them the rest of the day.”

“Now, I know you’re not denying me my new pull-toy,” says Mr. Stark, and while his tone is playful, there’s enough of a warning threaded through it that Peter stills, uncertain of his immediate future. Steve shakes his head and say, “No, sir, you want him run off his hoof, that’s up to you entirely.”

Harley wanders in from the bathroom, still looking seedy and ill, demanding, “Who’s running Peter off his hooves?”

“Nobody, Harley,” says Pepper quellingly. “Go grab your slippers for him. Slippers are the right shoes for staying home, Tony, which is what he’s doing for the rest of the day.”

Tony is glaring at Steve, who is staring back calmly, body language saying he’s fine, he’s fine with whatever Mr. Stark wants, unless you look at the stubborn tightness in his jaw. Tony shakes himself and says, “But if I want to drag him down to Central Park, take in some fresh air, none of you is saying anything.”

“Of course not,” says Harley, bewildered. “But why’d you want to do that?”

“I don’t,” concedes Mr. Stark, turning from glaring at Steve to smile at Harley. “But just on principle.”

“I’d go,” offers Peter, capturing Mr. Stark’s approving smile for himself. “I never been.”

“You lived in Queens,” says Harley, shocked.

“Never had time,” admits Peter, face falling because, well, it’s true.

Harley’s expression darkens and Steve’s grip on his foot gets a little uncomfortable.

“Slippers, dear,” reminds Pepper, and Harley backs through the bathroom. “And you, Mr. Stark, stop worrying that anyone is offering you criticism of your methods and desires. Steve was just saying Peter should have given you all the facts so you could make a good decision. Nobody is saying you can’t do exactly what you want with anything and everything in this room.” The smile that twitches her lips is indulgent, caressing, and Peter watches Mr. Stark’s shoulders and jaw lose some of their tension. 

“Why you keep a bodyguard around that you fight with constantly is beyond me,” she adds, a little exasperation leaking into her tone.

“Just like fighting,” reply Steve and Mr. Stark in the same breath, and then smile at each other in complete accord. Pepper rolls her eyes and asks Peter, “So did you like the sundae?”

“Oh, yeah,” enthuses Peter. “Sundaes are the best! Mr. Stark let me have a bite of his hot fudge and it was good, but I got the cherry one and it was _ better _ , it had cherries all through it, and this stuff on top was called whipped cream, never thought anything so light and sweet could _ exist _.”

“Well, that’s a rousing review,” she chuckles at him, lips curved and eyes alight. “I’m glad he picked the right treat. I called over to Ford and he’ll have his accountant in touch with Phil, Tony, but he said preliminary figures were nearer to $150 an hour.” Peter nods to himself, satisfied that he’d had the facts mostly right.

Mr. Stark hums interest at that and says, “We doing lunch here or--?”

“Down on the patio, I think,” replies Pepper easily. “Cold sandwiches, fresh fruit, for the judge. He’s got a heart issue, his wife was telling me at the Ladies Cotillion last month, you remember, Huguette Clark was the debutante?”

Mr. Stark makes a non-committal noise and smacks Harley on the back of the head as he walks past with Peter’s slippers. “Ow,” complains Harley, dropping the slippers in Peter’s lap. “What’s that for?”

“No reason,” admits Mr. Stark with a smirk. “Cause I can.”

“Just because you can doesn’t mean you gotta,” complains Harley, rubbing his head. He slots a glance up at Mr. Stark that doesn’t seem like a glare, to Peter. It almost looks like approval, or encouragement. “I ain’t even had coffee yet.”

Bucky sighs and stands, “I got it, Hellcat, stop yowling.”

Peter can feel that some kind of easiness has been restored to the room, but he has no idea how or why he gets that impression. It’s just a calming sensation against his nerves as Steve slides the slippers onto his feet with a scowl.

“Seeing as how you’re clearly carrying a torch for him, or at least for his feet,” sneers Mr. Stark to Steve, causing Pepper to roll her eyes, “you’re in charge of security for him. Meant to tell you earlier.”

Steve nods, meeting Mr. Stark’s eyes for a long glance. Their expressions flicker a little during the long look, but Peter doesn’t know either one well enough to read what is being communicated between them. Mr. Stark looks away first and nods, more of a twitch than a nod, Peter notes, and it’s hiding something, like the tilt to his head downstairs, during his chat with Peter and Harley the night before. Steve nods back slowly and says, “Yes, Boss,” just as slowly, like he’s being given an award or something. Then he turns and glares at Peter. Peter shrinks back like he’s been hit, because the sudden ice cold of Steve’s narrowed eyes _ feels _ like a hit, and splutters, “Wh-what?”

“You eat anything but rot-gut coffee and fancy cherry ice cream today?” demands Steve.

“N-no?” asks Peter, bewildered. _ What? _

“We’re trying to feed you up, how you think we’re going to get that done with melt-away ice cream and coffee?” scolds Steve.

Peter can feel a flush spread, because yes, he knew that, everyone, even Mr. Stark, has been telling him he needs to gain weight, he just, he didn’t _ think _ about it that morning. “S-sorry, sir,” he mutters, ducking his head to stare at his slippers.

“You oughta be, ice cream and coffee, I swear,” scolds Steve. “Be back in five.”

“Like a man who takes his job seriously,” murmurs Mr. Stark to Mrs. Stark, moving to sit next to her on the couch, one hand patting her knee absently. Harley snickers, throwing himself down into a chair to sprawl opposite Peter and says, “Peter, you shouldn’t let Cap get the idea he can boss you around like that. You should fight him back on stuff.”

“That’s enough of that talk,” says Bucky, entering the room, glaring at Harley. “You watch the size of them britches you’re walking around in.”

“Aww, just ‘cause you’re old war buddies, you’re always taking his side,” groans Harley, rolling his eyes comically at Bucky. Bucky smacks his head as he walks past and sits on the couch opposite Peter.

“Old war buddies?” asks Peter, because that fits. That fits with so much about the two of them, the way they move, the way they talk.

“Yeah, grew up together not far from here, Brooklyn, met again in the trenches at Passchendaele. Fought side by side straight through to Armistice, and then some, if you figure I got taken prisoner of war. Had to learn some German, enough to get by. Then who shows up to spring me early but the Captain himself, with a small squad,” Bucky says, but while there’s a smile on his face, it’s bitter. “Followed him outta that hellhole, beg pardon, Pepper, and into the next one, been following him ever since.”

The room is quiet with the gravity of this story until Harley says, “That’s how we got them, matched set, onna blue ticket discharge.” 

Mr. Stark glares at him, growling wordlessly, and Harley protests, “What? It’s the truth, Mr. Stark, if they could be guarding the president right now, he’d be safer than whoever he’s got, guaranteed. They’re the best,” he informs Peter stoutly. “And we don’t care about what the paperwork says, the Stark family sticks together, takes care of each other. The Captain did right by Bucky.” He nods his head, decisively, as Bucky chuckles at what must be the most unqualified yet enthusiastic endorsement of anybody that Peter’s ever heard. 

“We do, Hellcat, we certainly do,” agrees Bucky. He turns his cold gaze to Peter and adds, “Don’t miss the army too much, neither. Better food in the Stark kitchens. Better entertainment, too.”

Bucky and Mr. Stark share electric amused glances, while Peter tries hard not to think of what kinds of hellholes Bucky has been to in New York that compare to the trenches of the Great War. “I don’t think much of the officer who cashiered you,” Peter says mildly, which is something he’d heard around the old neighborhood. Some of the drunks down there were dishonorable discharges, but a blue ticket, well, that could be _ anything_. No reason for it to make his hands shake, thinking about it.

Bucky stares back at him for a long moment, and then chuckles, “No, I don’t much like the fella, either.” He eyes Peter up speculatively, a small smile tugging at his lips. 

“I know good work when I see it, and good workers when I see them, too,” says Mr. Stark with an air of finality. “Hey, Buck, meet me in my office for a sec?” He nods at the hallway and Bucky rises, running a hand through first Harley’s and then Peter’s hair as he passes them on his way out.

Steve returns, a mug full of chowder in his hand, with Clint in riding his wake. Clint announces without any fanfare, “McGinty’s kid saw the judge’s car hit the bottom of the hill, folks. ‘Tasha’s out front helping them to the back on account of there’s fewer stairs if you go ‘round the side.”

Pepper purses her lips as Harley yelps and flies for the door back to his bedroom. “Hold ‘em, I’ll be ready,” he calls. “Clint, grab my coffee?” Clint sighs, looking around and doing the math, Peter guesses. He picks up the coffee and heads for the door Harley had disappeared through moments earlier.

Pepper sighs quietly, standing and motioning for Peter to stand. 

“You can sip on that chowder as we walk,” directs Steve, passing it off and offering Pepper his arm. She takes it, with a warm smile for him, and he sweeps her through the door. Peter looks down at the thick chowder and shrugs, taking his first sip. Steve is cracked, utterly cracked, but the chowder is good, so Peter’s not going to complain.

  


~~~

  
They take a twisting, winding path through the house, one that deposits them in front of a set of leaded glass French doors. Steve opens them, as Pepper turns and links arms with Peter. “For luck,” she murmurs, and kisses his cheek. “Walk boldly, you’re a Stark now, son,” she teases gently. She nods at the small table in the corner and says, “Leave the mug there, Mrs. Friday will get it back to the kitchens.”

Peter nods, and walks her out into the sunshine and warmth of the back patio.

At first, they’re alone, but then Natasha shows up, with a portly man who is introduced as Judge Reinholdt. Peter shakes his hand, surprised by the strength of his grip, as Pepper makes social inquiries about the Judge’s female relatives. “Yes, yes,” laughs the Judge, “the feminine flock is all doing well, in fine fettle. Well, so how did you come upon this young man, and decide to add him to your empire? My nose smells a story, Lady Potts.” He lays one finger against his nose and Peter is shocked because he’s only ever seen that in the shorts played at nickelodeons. Nobody _actually_ _uses_ that gesture, thinks Peter wildly.

“Oh,” flutters Pepper, and Peter is shocked to see her flush and sound almost airheaded. “No one calls me that old title anymore, Judge Reinholdt.”

“Reginald, I insist, you chair my Edwina’s committee, the one with all the reforms for children,” he presses. “And my father used to say, ‘hold them up for all they’ll bear,’ never give up an advantage, Mrs. Stark. You’re a lady in truth, and there’s not many of those titles laying around for grabs these days.”

Pepper continues to _ simper _ at the man, Peter marvels. “Oh, Reginald,” she laughs. “It was a bad match, badly ended, and we’re here to celebrate a new start. Let’s not dig into that old news.”

“So tell me the story, how did you decide on another heir, and another one so _ old_? I thought all you feminine sorts had fancies for babies and cupids and dolls and such.”

“Well,” laughs Pepper, as Peter grits his teeth, did the man just ask Pepper Potts why she wasn’t playing with dolls? _ Unbelievable_! “Do you know, he’s one of those types that can’t help but make Mr. Stark money, and you know how Mr. Stark is about his money. He had to keep him close to his vest, and what better way to do it than to adopt him?”

The judge laughs and says, “And so, boy, you golden goose, how did you catch his eye?”

Peter is tongue-tied because Pepper is playacting and Steve has silently faded back, with Natasha, there in the same way the _ furniture _ is there. He can’t just blurt out that Harley kidnapped him. He can’t just _ tell the truth_. “I- I-” stammers Peter, hoping Pepper will save him.

“One of Mrs. Stark’s little charity ventures,” bursts the voice of Mr. Stark from the doorway. “I do like that she keeps herself so busy and I suppose it does help my pocketbook at tax time. Was having a looksee down at the State Homes to see how my latest money was being applied, and he stumbled up to me to ask me about my factories, was I using an assembly line, what kind of machinery did I have for making it automated? Could have blown me over with a feather,” he muses, and Peter feels like he could be blown away with a feather, who _ is this man _ standing in front of him? Mr. Stark doesn’t look like himself _ at all _ , even though he’s wearing the same suit he was wearing upstairs. The way he’s talking, he’s lost all of his musical _ cant, _his voice sounds flat and strident. Even the way he holds himself is a little more stilted, more formal. Pepper is smiling sweetly and vapidly, Mr. Stark is a blowhard, and then Harley arrives and Peter can feel his eyes about bug out of his head. 

Harley’s hair is combed, fashionably parted, his face scrubbed red and fresh, his clothes tucked in and straightened, even his shoes neat and polished. He doesn’t look like Harley _ at all _ as he leaps forward to shake hands with the judge. Peter gapes at him as cautiously as he can.

“Ahh, Harley, young man, have you decided what school you’ll attend in the fall?” asks the Judge with interest.

“Oh,” says Harley airily, and he had _ struggled _ with the _ seven times table_, Peter remembers, just last night at dinner, “I just can’t decide between Yale and Brown.”

“Yale’s my alma mater,” cries the judge happily. “You should go there, attend, young man, you’ll never regret it!”

“Maybe, I have a lot to do around here, first, helping father out with the business,” says Harley, and Peter can’t believe what he’s seeing, Harley is attempting to look _ virtuous, _ and _ the judge is buying it._ _ Harley_, who blew Steve in a car and definitely did some sinning with Mr. Stark last night. _ Harley. _

“Good boy, good man, I should say, I’m certain your father depends on you,” cries the judge. “Why if any of my boys had turned out half so well, I’d be out of buttons, Mr. Stark.”

Peter’s jaw drops open. Bucky, walking past, kicks at his slipper discreetly and shakes his head darkly at Peter. Peter snaps his jaw shut and looks to Pepper, who smiles brightly at him and gestures quickly to her face. Peter smiles back, automatically, and she nods. _Everyone here is mad_, Peter decides, feeling his cheeks start to ache. 

“Regularly such a proud papa I bust them,” laughs Mr. Stark, throwing an arm around Harley’s neck and pulling him in tight. Steve, behind the judge now, rolls his eyes at Peter and Peter smiles back, because he thinks he can see the shape of the game, now, even if he’s not sure how to play his part in it. Nobody warned him there’d be _ playacting_.

“Judge, the staff have set out a luncheon for us,” says Pepper delicately. “And I’m ever so peckish. Could we move this along?” 

Bucky nods enthusiastically and Peter chokes on laughter as Natasha rolls her eyes and then resumes her blandest expression as servant/furniture. Clint is somewhere, Peter keeps losing track of him and Natasha, Bucky and Steve, because they’re all being so bland, so, so completely _ unlike _ themselves. And Pepper and Tony and Harley are acting like such _ dopes_.

“Ah-ah-ah, first my story,” scolds the judge in a disgustingly drippy tone. Peter flinches from it. “The little missus will ring such a peal over my head if I don’t bring her back enough gossip for her little birdie’s roosts. She does so love to know more than the other girls,” he confides to Mr. Stark.

Mr. Stark smiles broadly and says, “Oh I know, the things we do for our women, eh, Your Honor? Just the other day I was saying to Vanderbilt, ‘Who really wears the pants around this man’s world,’ eh? Still, might as well brighten their little lives, come here, sit, I’ll squawk for you.” He gestures to some wicker furniture just down the path, in the shade of the arbor.

The judge laughs heartily, and Peter thinks wildly, _ Natasha is going to kill him_, and he doesn’t know who he thinks she’s going to kill, the judge or Mr. Stark. The only reason he doesn’t think _ Pepper is going to kill him _ is that Pepper is simpering and he’s not sure he recognizes her anymore. Who _ are _ these people? 

“Wise up,” Harley hisses at him, holding him back as everyone kind of drifts after Mr. Stark and the judge. “If we gotta go get another judge, it’ll be until Monday, and then Mr. Stark’ll be _seriously_ _displeased_, Angel. He don’t like waiting.”

“Well, what the hell,” Peter hisses back at him, pulling his arm out of Harley’s grip and straightening the jacket. “You’re all cracked!”

“He’s not on our take, he’s on _ Richard’s_, he’s _ on loan _ on account of he’s from family court, and if you don’t snap into it, I’m gonna _ let _ Mr. Stark lay into you later,” Harley warns him, and then stalks off.

Peter takes a deep breath and attempts to snap into whatever it is the Starks are doing this afternoon. He plasters a smile on his face and walks over underneath the arbor.

“So you see, it’s just like Harley,” finishes Mr. Stark mournfully, shooting Peter a doleful look that has his footsteps stuttering because he can’t _ believe _ it. “Sad story, just broke my heart.”

The judge’s red face is indeed sad, Peter considers, and he tries to school his into an angelic look, like he is nothing but a sad story, standing here in a borrowed suit and slippers to protect his poor, blistered feet. “I remember Harley,” the judge intones slowly, “Why, when I asked him his Christian name, do you remember, boy, you spat back at me that you hadn’t any Christ in you, and if you did, it wouldn’t be in your name?” He sits back, seemingly shocked all over again at this declaration. 

Mr. Stark coughs, and excuses himself to speak with the servants about refreshments. Pepper shakes her head, hand flying to her mouth as if in remembered horror, but Peter can see her eyes crease with laughter. “Oh, Your Honor,” she murmurs, when she has gotten control of herself again, “I scarcely remember those awful days, before Harley attended Holy Trinity regularly.” Peter looks at Harley- is Holy Trinity the name of one of Mr. Stark’s speakeasies?- and Harley _ twitches _ at him.

The judge looks at her mournfully, “It was your good influence, as an angel of God within his life, that has raised him up. Your motherly duty has resulted in such a victory for the Lord.”

“And I thank God for her every day,” says Harley, walking over to Pepper and sitting close, gently placing a hand around her shoulders. He kisses her temple and she raises a hand to hold him there for a second. Peter looks closer and sees her digging her fingers into his thigh with her other hand, making it twitch and shiver. 

“Oh, son,” she says, sighing heavily as if touched. “I think much the same about you. Daily.” Harley makes a little noise and Peter watches her release his thigh and give it a gentle, maternal pat. Harley begins to rub it surreptitiously and shoot her small, hidden glares while she smiles widely at the judge.

“Such a happy family,” exclaims the judge, turning to Peter. “And now you’ve landed among them! Well, Mr. Stark tells me, and I read from your papers, a sad story, but form must be followed. Is it true, there is no one in your family who will come forward to refute our work today and claim you?”

Peter unravels these words slowly and then tries to make his face a picture of misery. “No, sir, Your Honor,” he responds. “M’mom and dad only had Ben and May, my aunt and uncle. I’ve seen the family Bible,” he says, and then immediately feels guilty because he _ absolutely _ left it behind at the State Home when Harley kidnapped him. He hadn’t even _ thought _ of it. “I was the last of that line,” he tells the judge. “I don’t even know how many are here, and how many are over in England.”

“Did you ever run into any Parkers, in your time there, Lady Potts,” asks the judge, turning to Pepper. Mr. Stark ducks under the arbor again, to sit on the long chair on Pepper’s other side, an arm wrapping around her in seeming support. Peter watches it bat at Harley, out of sight of the judge, and feels a smirk stretch his lips.

“Noo,” says Pepper slowly, elbowing Mr. Stark and Harley subtly as she shifts to lean forward, Peter notices. “But then, I wasn’t often out in society. Lord Potts was… reclusive.” Mr. Stark’s eyes darken at this statement, Peter notes with interest, and Harley twitches. “And anyway, I think it would be highly unlikely that any Parkers left in England could know of our Peter here, in the State Home, and have done nothing,” she says, false horror lacing her voice.

“The world is full of unsavory louts,” sighs the judge, shaking his head. Peter chokes because the Butcher of New York and his Black Widow are within arm’s reach of the man. Steve leans over and hands him a glass of lemonade with a, “Master Peter, sir?” and Peter shoots him a glare and replies, “Thank you,” taking a sip as if he’d _ needed _ one.

“So polite,” the judge praises. “Nothing like my first meeting with your Harley, and I had half-steeled myself for that misadventure again.”

“No, Peter’s a completely different kettle of fish, as different as dark and day,” agrees Mr. Stark, and Harley agrees, “As different as dirty and clean, lion and lamb, top and bottom.” He smiles over at Peter and Peter bares his teeth back, shifting it into an affable smile as the judge glances over at him.

“Well, then,” says the judge. “I’ve taken a look at the paperwork, I’ve done the home visit myself. I’ve confirmed the minor child knows of no other claim to him. I suppose there’s only one question left to ask. Peter Parker-” Peter straightens and faces him, and he can’t decide how he’s supposed to look so he settles on earnest attentiveness, “do you wish to be adopted on this day, by this man and woman before you?”

Peter looks over at the three on the couch, Pepper sandwiched between Mr. Stark and Harley. Mr. Stark looks back, expectant and curious. Pepper smiles wryly at him as she surreptitiously digs her fingers into Harley’s thigh again. Harley’s smile blooms, his eyes twinkling even as his mouth ticks slightly as he suppresses his reaction to Pepper’s nails. Peter can’t see what his other hand is doing, but it’s doing something, and knowing Harley, Peter’s money is on something _ not right_.

“Yes,” says Peter after a long moment, mostly because Mr. Stark bought him an ice cream sundae that morning and Pepper had been impressed with his idea about the Gilbreths. He watches their smiles sharpen and bloom and thinks it’s probably going to be worth it.

“Then, by all means, let us sign the papers,” says the judge. “You, there,” and he’s waving for _ Bucky_, who killed a snitch’s entire family last week, to come _ closer to him _. “Go fetch my case, bring it here, with a pen. Mind you make sure it writes, not like last time,” he shouts after Bucky turns on his heel with a silent nod.

“I do love this part, bringing families together,” he tells the three on the long wicker couch. “Why, look at the improvement they’ve made in your life, Harley, my fine young man. I almost feel responsible, like I’d taken you in myself.”

Peter’s going to gag. He takes another sip of the sweet lemonade to try to head it off.

Mr. Stark says, gravely, “I know I’ve thought of you as responsible for us from time to time, as the one man who really cinched us together, locked us in for eternity. I’ve called on the memory of that day often, and thought of how all you had to do was not sign, and how boring our lives would be.” He’s got Harley’s wrist in a tight grip, just below Pepper’s arm, out of the line of sight of the judge, Peter notes from his standing vantage point. He’s grinding the bones, Peter thinks, watching Harley’s color drain a little, lips barely twitching. When Mr. Stark releases Harley’s hand, Harley slowly moves it away from Pepper, dropping it into his own lap and beginning to massage it, eyes never leaving the judge’s face, smile locked. 

Pepper gives Harley’s thigh a gentle pat and tells the judge, voice wry and fond, “I know I think of that day, too, when Harley is being troublesome, and I thank God you trusted us to straighten him out.” Harley’s eyes flicker at this, but his smile remains fixed, although his hands stutter as they rub his wrists.

“I knew you were the best thing that crazed child could hope for,” says the judge. Pepper and Mr. Stark’s eyes both dance as they murmur agreement. “And you, son,” he asks Harley wistfully, making the young man’s head snap up, “do you ever think of that day, four years ago, when you drew your H on that paper?”

“Every day, sir,” breathes Harley. “Every single day.” He looks over at Peter and then tells the judge, “And I never been so grateful to a judge in my whole life.”

The judge shifts, clearly pleased. Peter takes another sip of his lemonade. Steve quietly passes out glasses until they’re all holding one, while Bucky returns with a small case. “Excellent, perfect thing for a hot summer day,” declares the judge. Peter can _ hear _ Harley listing all of the alternatives he’d rather be drinking in his head, but he also notices that the color of Harley’s and Mr. Stark’s glasses doesn’t quite match the other three. He sighs, and sips his glass.

The judge makes short work of his lemonade, and then opens the case, drawing out the paperwork, stamping and signing and guiding Mr. and Mrs. Stark, the happy couple, to sign, as well. There’s a moment, then, a pause that almost feels anti-climactic, before the judge says, “Given your age, you’re allowed to sign, too, boy, would you care to? Harley wrote his H on his, those long years ago, and you heard him say he thinks of it every day.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” says Peter simply. Pepper makes a pleased noise, with the first genuine smile he’s seen in the last half-hour crossing her lips. Mr. Stark grips his shoulder with a heavy hand as he signs his name in his best cursive, Peter Stark.

“Officially the baby of the family,” Harley teases, but his voice has a thread of happiness and pleasure that’s hard to deny is _ real _.

Peter looks up from signing and realizes Steve and Bucky have been watching, and Clint and Natasha, too. Happy is standing off to one side, and Peter didn’t even notice him come in.

“Ours,” murmurs Pepper, and she leans forward to kiss Peter’s cheek.

“Ours,” agrees Mr. Stark, doing the same on the other side, his hand heavy and tight on Peter’s shoulder still.

“Indeed,” agrees the judge, placing the papers carefully on the seat next to him to dry. “Well, let us repair to this luncheon repast of yours, Mrs. Stark.” He stands, and they shuffle before him, to make room for him to pass among them and follow Natasha down the short path to the poolside cabanas. Peter watches the heart of the Stark Empire, split into silent servants and fortunate family on lines that make no sense when you see how they really are in the rooms upstairs, watches them pretend to be _ normal_. It’s like the Greeks must have felt, he figures, watching Zeus and Hera and all of the gods shrink themselves into mortal bodies. They don’t fit, in those smaller skins. They don’t fit, it looks awful, and Peter’s already got a headache, trying to keep himself in character. Steve glowers at him until he takes a second sandwich and eats it under that dark gaze, and at once point Clint swings by and says, “Lose the smirk.” Which was helpful, Peter didn’t realize his thoughts were playing across his face, but also _ terrifying_, because Peter had lost track of him in all the furniture, again.

Eventually, the tailor arrives for Peter and Pepper, and the judge is escorted from the mansion with the dry parchments.

“So wonderful to be asked out again for this little ceremony,” the judge enthuses, and Peter winces, hidden behind Mr. Stark and Pepper. This whole afternoon has been awful, Peter thinks. He just wants a book and his window seat in the library, but apparently now he’s got to stand for a tailor, whatever that means.

The judge shakes hands with everyone as his footman guides him into his car. Peter’s never been so glad to see anyone leave a place, and he’s absolutely counting the time he watched Flash get thrown out on his ear from the matron’s office.

“Well, that’s done,” sighs Pepper, and then she swats at Hellcat as they walk back around the side of the mansion to the patio. Mr. Stark thumps him, too and Peter briefly wonders if he can get in on that action. He doesn’t like the odds on him if it turns out they’ll let Harley and him tussle, though, so he keeps it to wondering only. “Unbuttoning my dress, who do you think you are,” she scolds Harley. 

“Your loving, devoted son,” simpers Harley, before bursting into laughter and running three steps out of her reach. “Aww, pretty mama, it’s a hot day, I was helping!” he protests. 

“Helping yourself to an early grave,” Mr. Stark growls. “All of today reminded me of that time with you, couldn’t help drawing the comparisons there.”

“He was awful,” declares Bucky, collaring Harley and giving him a hard shake, twisting one of Harley’s arms up behind his back and pinning it there. “Hasn’t much changed,” he muses.

“He can write his full name,” says Pepper brightly.

“Most days,” laughs Natasha, and Clint’s face breaks into tongue-out teasing as Harley whines and writhes in Bucky’s hold.

Peter asks, plaintively, “Do we have to do the tailor thing today?”

“Yes,” says everyone, definitively, and then they burst into laughter en masse. Peter hunches his shoulders and Pepper kisses his temple. “You’ll be fine,” she tells him. “You just have to stand and let him measure you. I promise we’ll talk about the actual wardrobe with him on Monday. Right now, we need your measurements for your Sunday suit.”

“Holy Trinity hasn’t burst into flames yet,” laughs Harley, catching Peter’s expression. “We’ve got to go try again tomorrow morning.”

“You go to church?” asks Peter, incredulous.

“Every Sunday,” Pepper says firmly. “I don’t care if they can’t make it because they’re ill or injured, but every Sunday, I’m in that pew, and you will be, too.” She nods and lifts a determined chin. Peter believes her.

“And you can swear in any language you care to list,” adds Steve sternly, “but don’t you dare take the Lord's name in vain in front of Mrs. Stark.”

“I’d prefer you _ never do it ever_,” admits Pepper, tilting her head at Peter. “But I’m aware I have finite strength. If Harleycat can learn to curb it, you can.”

“Angel here?” asks Mr. Stark. “He probably never even thought about taking those kind of liberties in the first place.” His voice is back, realizes Peter with relief. It’s bad enough that he can’t keep track of what these people want when they’re being _ themselves_. Keeping track of a whole second set of what they might want is going to be even worse.

Pepper takes Peter’s hand and tugs him inside, down one of the hallways Peter doesn’t recognize, although everyone else in the group seems to know exactly where they are and where they’re going. “Where was he sent, to wait?” she asks Clint impatiently.

“Your parlor,” smirks Clint.

“A little public,” she muses. “Better have him meet us in the boys’ room.”

“Awww, I was fixing to have a lie down,” moans Harley, scrubbing a hand through his hair, making it stand up in all directions.

“You been on your back all morning,” growls Mr. Stark. “You’ve had your coffee, you’re up. Get hopping with the rest of us.”

Pepper pulls Peter closer to her, drawing him up the stairs, as the rest of the crowd follows Mr. Stark down the hallway.


	2. Chapter 2

The measuring process is, as expected, embarrassing, but not as embarrassing with Pepper as it would have been with Harley. The tailor and Pepper both make comments that have Peter questioning how fast he can fatten up, since that seems to be a major point of annoyance for both of them. Apparently some of the points where he’s too skinny, you can’t just _ let out _ the seam, whatever that means, and it’s going to _ hang wrong _ until he gains the right kind of weight. However, Pepper’s eyes on his skin never feel predatory, only curious and interested, and the whole thing doesn’t take very long. The tailor is professional and courteous, touching him only as much as he must, and warning Peter where he’s placing his tape, and why he needs the measurement. It’s not at all like Doc Banner’s inspection. _ And _ Peter gets to keep his drawers on.

When the man leaves, promising an early delivery on the Sunday suit so that Peter can attend the 9 o’clock service at the church with the rest of the family, Pepper turns to him and asks, “Do you think you could eat some more?”

Peter sighs. He knew that question was coming. She gestures him over to the door that leads to her suite, and pats his shoulder in passing. “It’s only for the next little bit, son,” she teases. “I’m sure with all the treats Tony has planned for you boys, you’ll fill out fast.”

“Hi, Peter,” says Bucky, rising from his spot on the couch next to Clint. “Need you for a moment, Pepper, thanks.”

Peter groans, but Pepper says, “Take some cookies with you, won’t you, Bucky? The ones from the tea tray?”

Bucky nods, and snags a couple, and then smiles brightly at Peter. “Back into your room, I think.”

Peter shivers as he walks. There’s something about the other man’s smile that reminds him of nothing more than a hungry wolf, and a thumb pressed just past his teeth. Bucky puts a hand out, pressing into the center of Peter’s back along his spine, and pushes him into the blue bathroom with a strong arm. Once inside, he kicks the door closed and pushes Peter down onto the stool by the sink.

Peter’s not asking what they’re in here for. He doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to have to think about it until he _ has _ to think about it. He shivers as the man looks at him, eyes cold and dark. “You gonna be quiet, Angel?” Bucky asks, quiet himself in a way that makes Peter’s skin turn to bumps.

Peter nods. If there’s one thing he’s getting good at, it’s being a quiet angel. He thinks of the night before, being behind the curtains, and nods again. He’s getting real good at being _ quiet_.

“You think you can hold still for me, very still?” asks Bucky, and there’s a teasing light in his eyes that Peter does not like, when he glances up.

“Held still plenty for Mr. Stark this morning,” he tells Bucky, like Mr. Stark is a shield he can put in front of him.

“Yeah, had a little talk with the Bossman about that, he had a request. Said he told you. Do you remember it?” Peter’s breathing speeds up as Bucky pulls down the shaving cup and begins to lather a brush.

“N-no,” he whimpers, because he does, he does remember Mr. Stark saying he’d let Bucky deal with Peter’s scrub, his other scrub, the stuff not on his face.

“Oh, yeah,” says Bucky, smiling a little more broadly, “Now I see you got the idea. No time like the present, Angel, and let me be clear, this ain’t a one-time thing so you better get yourself adjusted to the idea.” Peter’s heart is racing, trying to think of a way out that doesn’t involve making the man mad, making Mr. Stark upset, or drawing any kind of attention to himself.

“I-it’s, it’s my adoption day,” he tries, helplessly. “C-can’t it wait for tomorrow?”

“No,” says Bucky simply. “Steve may have won that toss up in Mr. Stark’s head for security, could have given the odds on that yesterday, but learn from Harley’s example on this one, Angel, being good to one of us is being good to both of us. And I can tell you’ll be good right now, so no more jawing like you won’t.” He plays with the brush in the cup a little more, before digging in the cabinet for a straight razor, setting it on the sink edge. “‘S’funny he’d ask for this for you, Angel,” he says, musingly, flicking the blade open. “Doesn’t much care about it for anyone else. You give him some ideas, this morning, when he was scraping your chin and cheeks?”

Peter shakes his head, closing his eyes. He’s not moving, otherwise, he’s not. He’s not helping, not participating, he’s sitting this one out, stone still, he promises himself. He doesn’t want this, doesn’t want Bucky’s hands, a razor in Bucky’s hands, doesn’t want this _changed_ about him. He let them cut his hair and wrap his feet but this? This is something he _doesn’t_ _want_, one more thing he doesn’t _understand_.

“You gonna be a smart kid?” asks Bucky, lowly, sliding in close. His forearm comes up, pressing across Peter’s chest, pushing Peter into the wall. Peter gasps, the sound loud in the small room. “You gonna be smart, Peter Stark? Do what you’re told, when you’re told it?” repeats Bucky, lowly. His other hand works the button at the top of Peter’s trousers roughly. Peter can feel tears gather in his eyes. “Oh, them crocodile tears,” croons Bucky quietly. “I can see ‘em, sparkling up them long lashes of yours. You think you’re gonna convince me to disobey Bossman’s orders that way, Angel? A few crocodile tears gonna win me over?”

Peter shakes his head at that. He doesn’t _ expect _ anything. Bucky works his fingers at the next button and Peter squirms. “You’ll be laying flat down if I have anything to say about it, safer that way, easier for me to get to what I need, Angel. But this is nice, too, watching you squirm, feeling you fight it a bit. You feel free to let me know you ever want to put up an actual fight, Angel. Harley’ll tell you it’s an experience I usually end up being the one one enjoying.” Peter shakes his head, trying to block out the words, as the man works on the next button. “All these buttons,” Bucky mutters. “Oughta be a better way to close a pair of pants. Thank God we’re for drawers around here insteada full kit longjohns.” Peter hates his drawers immediately and wants those itchy full longjohns, the kind the matron passed out in October and didn’t collect again until May.

“Last one, wiggle all you want,” Bucky says, his smirk coming through his voice, lighting up Peter’s face with flame and shame. Peter squeezes his eyes tighter. “Aww, Angel, making faces isn’t going to change anything, I won’t be looking at your face in a minute here,” laughs Bucky. “But you go ahead, you’re being so quiet and still, I guess I won’t fault you for a few faces.”

Peter can feel the last button give way. Bucky’s arm releases him from the wall to sway on the stool. When the other man doesn’t do anything, he risks a glance up at him.

Bucky is looking down at him, faint smile on his lips. When he catches Peter’s eye, he crouches down slowly, until he’s looking up at Peter. “All right, Angel,” he says, lowly, his voice slow and deep, his eyes teasing and cold. “Now that was fun, fun for both of us if I don’t miss my mark, the way you was squirming.” Peter shakes his head slightly, his breathing coming in quick pants of air. “Yeah, you go ahead, Angel, I’ll let you think that,” chuckles Bucky, but he doesn’t break eye contact. “Them big old crocodile tears you keep in stock, I bet I could tell you where Mr. Stark got the idea for this game, kid.”

Bucky lifts a hand and Peter flinches, he can’t help it. Bucky frowns, and rests the hand on Peter’s knee, tapping his fingers there. “You been hit a lot, kid? You don’t look it. Thought you told Harley no, too.”

Peter shakes his head. He _hasn’t_. He’s a _good kid_. He’s never had to be slippered, or caned, or belted, or paddled, and even Ned had had all of those at some time or another, with the matron being so fast to grab for whatever would make an fast impression. He’s a _good_ _kid_, he’s _easy_. He _behaves_.

“Maybe you just ain’t been hit enough, maybe that’s it,” muses Bucky, his fingers tapping on Peter’s knee. “Never saw such a twitchy guy, flinching every time a guy lifts a hand.”

Peter shakes his head, denying this too. “Mm,” hums Bucky. “Well, I guess it’s something I’ll have to get used to. No one’s gonna hurt you, kid,” he says, lifting his hand to run his fingers down Peter’s cheek, spreading the wetness there. “You got all these tears and no one’s even dirtied you up yet. Come lay down, here, on the floor, like a good angel for me, let me do my job. Let me tell Mr. Stark how good you were for me, give him that report.”

Peter nods, then, because he definitely does not want Mr. Stark to receive a _ bad _ report. Bucky smiles at him, immediately, and says, “Good angel, be so good for me. Lay down here, right here on the floor, by the sink.”

The tiles are cold, and Peter shivers as he slides himself down, wishing he’d put the jacket back on when the tailor was done measuring. “Yeah, next time I’ll remember, lay down a towel, but don’t want you to bolt right now. You just lay there, still and quiet, Angel. Let me do my job. Go ahead and cry them crocodile tears, I’ll be touching you some, got half a mind that you won’t like it, way you acted with the doc.” Bucky lifts his shirt, shoves it up and presses Peter’s arms around it. Peter closes his eyes stubbornly. He doesn’t have to watch, Bucky can’t make him watch any of this. “Hold here, help me out some,” Bucky directs, tapping his fingers on Peter’s arms over the tucked up shirt. Peter doesn’t want to help, doesn’t want to have any part of this process, he got down on the floor, isn’t that enough? Isn’t that being good enough? But his hands hold the fabric up, out of Bucky’s way, after the direction is given.

Bucky shoves his pants down, drawers inside, in one swift swipe, and then pauses and says, “Well, he did say it was a pretty pecker, shoulda figured the Sheik would know,” in a musing tone of voice that makes Peter’s skin boil with shame. “And there’s the roses I was expecting,” he chuckles, his fingers chasing the line of the blush around Peter’s ears and cheeks with one absent hand. “Aww, you shouldn’t have, Angel, I don’t need no roses.” Peter gasps and squirms. The tile is ice cold where it touches his bare skin. He’s miserable, he’s holding his shirt, _ helping_, and he doesn’t want this, doesn’t want any of this, but he can’t find anywhere in him strong enough or smart enough to make it stop.

“I can see what he meant by scrub,” Bucky continues. Peter can hear the small click of the razor being lifted, the wet sound of the brush moving. “Ain’t hardly a man yet, are you? No wonder he’s calling you his angel baby. Ain’t but just a man, never noticed that with the doc, but I’m seeing it now.” The brush glides over Peter’s skin, startling him, leaving behind a trace of cool wetness, and he can feel his dick retreat in fear. “Aww, have to remember to get you a heated towel next time, too cold, ruining the show,” teases Bucky. “Still, fun to watch it twitch and move, think about making it twitch and move some other time.”

Peter bites his lip and shifts uncomfortably. “Now I said _ still_,” says Bucky sharply, making Peter startle, eyes flying to the other man’s dark and stormy face. “I ain’t aiming to blood you anywhere today, and I know you don’t want that, neither.”

Peter shakes his head frantically, and then says, “Nossir,” for good measure, squeezing his eyes shut against a fresh flood of fear and tears.

“That’s what I thought,” agrees Bucky. “So lay still. Be a good, quiet angel, and lay still. Let me do my job, here.” He begins to work, shifting Peter’s thighs for better access and angles as necessary. Peter can’t help the whimpers and moans that escape his lips, the tears that seep down to his temples, but he works hard to lay still while Bucky has the razor against his skin. The strokes are smaller than Mr. Stark’s long smooth ones of the morning, fast little flicks of Bucky’s wrist. He works from between Peter’s thighs up, and from his hips inward. Finally, he grabs hold of Peter’s dick and tugs it, experimentally, a couple of times, laughing with delight when it responds by twitching back at him. “So there’s life in you yet, little Angel. Who’d’a’thunk’it. All them lying crocodile tears.” 

Peter moans, miserable, as Bucky teases him with a few more tugs and then says, “Well, that’s probably enough, I made my point, got to play a little. Hold still, or Mr. Stark’ll be mad at you that my razor bit you first, before he could get there,” he says, and then shaves the base of Peter’s dick, too, holding tight to Peter’s dick the whole time he’s working.

He stands, then, leaving Peter on the floor with one last, “Still, Angel,” command, and then walks to collect a washcloth. He stands over Peter, leaning on the sink to run the hot water, get the washcloth wet. Then he kneels beside Peter with the wet washcloth and wipes him off, toweling him dry moments later. “Well, now I think I understand better why Mr. Stark said to add this to my day,” he says, pleased. “Nice and soothing, little bit of fun, almost makes up for not getting to be your shadow. Always thinking of what’s best for his men, Mr. Stark is. Up, Angel, pull up them drawers and trousers. You can tuck yourself away in there, wash your face. And we’ll do this again tomorrow, you hear me? Mr. Stark assigned me to it, special, and unless you hear different, expect me to do it regular like clockwork.”

Peter, up like a shot at the permission, stares at him in the mirror, caught with his hands twisting the first button into place. “Every day?” he whispers, watching the blood drain from his face as the other man’s smile blooms.

“Every day,” confirms Bucky, nodding pleasantly. “Add it to your calendar. Mr. Stark allows as how I might be too busy on some days, but I’m sure I’ll find the time.”

Peter’s hands are shaking as he buttons himself up and splashes water on his face to disguise the tear tracks. _ Every day. _

“Here, such a good angel,” teases Bucky, hands turning him to face the door, face Bucky, and Peter can’t look up, can’t bring himself to make eye contact with the man. _ Every day. _ “Have a cookie.”

He holds out the cookie, but when Peter goes to take it from him, he clucks his tongue and chides, “Now, Angel, we only got this one time of day I’ll be takin’ care of you, let me do it. Open up them lips, let me _ treat _ you.” He touches the cookie to Peter’s lips and Peter is reminded, horribly, of Bucky’s thumb pressed there, pressing _ in _ . “C’mon, Angel, I can give you other treats after these little shaves later but for right now, what I’m _ allowed _ to give you a taste of is cookie,” teases Bucky with a wicked grin that Peter catches when he looks up in disbelief, thinking, _ what other treats? What other tastes? _ “Open up, let me give you what I can.”

Peter stares back at the other man, watching his eyes darken and flash with annoyance as Peter stares up at him and doesn’t part his lips. After a few heartbeats, Bucky shifts and Peter drops his jaw, snapping up the cookie in a quick bite. “Wise guy,” laughs Bucky, clearly delighted, pressing another cookie to Peter’s lips and then _ waiting _ as Peter chews. “You snap while you can, crocodile tears, soon’s I get the green light from the boss, I’ll put paid to all that snapping, tame you up like Harley, sweet little kitten licks.”

Peter tosses his head and uses that moment of confusion to snatch the second cookie, too, enjoying the way the other man leans in and mutters, “Snap while you can, Angel, I know you’ll be crying crocodile tears for me any time I want ‘em.” He pushes open the door and mockingly bows Peter into the bedroom. Steve is straightening the furniture and grins over at them. 

“You get done what was needful, Bucky?” he asks, making Peter blush and twitch, because everything feels so weird down there, although maybe that’s just the dampness. It makes him uncomfortably conscious of his dick, though, and how it rubs against his drawers with every motion.

“And then some,” replies Bucky. “Guess who was hopping and twitching after the first quick tugs?”

“Nooo,” drawls Steve, wandering closer, touching first Peter’s shoulder and then sliding a hand through his hair, ruffling it. “Angel? You let him touch you? Never would have guessed a sweet kid like you, you barely even know that big bad wolf, you letting him _ touch you _ like that?”

“_ Let _?!” splutters Peter. “He was holding a razor!” He glares over Steve’s shoulder at Bucky, who shoves a cookie in his mouth and grins.

Steve finger combs Peter’s hair and teases, “Oh, so you told him to stop, screamed some, called for help, and we just missed it somehow?”

Peter shakes his head. “Didn’t know all that was an option, he told me to be _ quiet,” _ he mutters resentfully.

“What a mean old wolf, making you turn on yourself like that,” comments Steve, pressing a hand on Peter’s chest, pushing him back towards the bed, slowly, step by slow step while he talks. “Can’t help yourself, can you Angel, gotta be good and do what you’re told, even when you don’t wanna, don’tcha?”

Peter looks up into his understanding gaze and nods, slowly.

“Yeah, that’s the trick with you,” agrees Steve easily. “Sit.”

Peter sits on the bed like he’s a puppet without strings. “Angel,” repeats Steve slowly, “you let Bucky touch you?” Peter’s mouth goes dry and he nods, uncertain and uncomfortable. “Shouldn’t have,” chides Steve, and Peter flushes, opening his mouth to protest that it’s not his fault- he didn’t know he could tell the other man _ not _ to. No one _ explains _ anything, they’re all just _ messing _ with him all the time. Steve tilts Peter’s head up and presses his thumb to Peter’s lips, silencing him before he can start. “Bucky shouldn’t have tried, but that’s the devil side for you, they don’t actually follow rules so well, don’t mind stirring up trouble. But I do mind, and Mr. Stark’ll mind, too. He’s a man who’ll appreciate all them small firsts with you, want to have ‘em. He may not look it, but he’s powerful jealous in nature.”

In the background, outside of Peter’s line of vision, which is anchored on Steve’s kind eyes and stern mouth, Bucky grunts agreement. Peter’s mouth drops open a little, to protest again, and Steve runs his thumb around Peter’s lips. “Shhh. Now I’m not telling, and Bucky’ll stop bragging, too, no one needs to know Bucky tugged first, got your first twitch, but you gotta do something for me.”

Peter’s heart stops beating, and his breathing catches, looking up into Steve’s kind eyes and wondering what kind of thing he’ll be asked to do. In this crazy house, he has no idea.

“Yeah, I see you get the gravity of your situation here,” Steve tells him, slowly, clearly drawing out the moment, watching Peter struggle for composure. “I see that mind thinking, for once, thinking ahead of time.”

Peter’s breath rasps into his lungs and Steve nods. “Yeah, you got it. But, on account of you didn’t know, it’ll be something small, something easy.”

Peter nods, a small agreement between the two of them. No reason to make Mr. Stark mad today. No reason at all.

“Something Harley knows, something you gotta learn, is a nice thing for one of us works for both of us,” Steve tells him. “I’ve had my kiss from you, and I know Mr. Stark has, too. That first has been blown, him not one hour home before you done it, he said. You want me to stay quiet about you letting Bucky tug you, you walk over there and give him a sweet kiss, like a real angel. You do that for me, I’ll seal my lips, won’t say a sigh.”

Peter gasps, flushing red, and presses his lips together. He shakes his head, looking down, and Steve sighs. “Well, maybe you aren’t as smart as all that, Angel. I won’t like telling Mr. Stark. He’s liable to shoot the messenger some, on account of I did tell him Bucky would behave when we was hired.” In the background, Bucky makes a short strangled noise and Peter hunches his shoulders, thinking of Steve getting in trouble for what him and Bucky- what _ Bucky _ just did. “But I ain’t letting you walk around here thinking it ain’t tit for tat. You want something, you gotta give something.” Steve nods decisively and Peter glances up at him. Steve stares back, waiting, his eyes kind and understanding and patient. Peter gives him a small nod and he breaks into a wide smile. 

“Bucky, you hold still, sit down or something,” directs Steve. “Peter’s coming over to say thank you and apologize for making you lose your good sense.” As Peter stands up, Steve brushes a hand down his back, soothing, and says, “You go be good to him, just for me, and then I’ll be good to you, keep quiet.”

Bucky is slouched in an armchair, draped over it, looking menacing and angry as Peter approaches. “What?” he asks, like he hasn’t overheard the whole conversation, like he doesn’t know why Peter’s standing in front of him. Peter’s fingers twist around the bottom button of his shirt, a nervous gesture he can’t stop. 

“S-steve,” starts Peter, damn that stutter. “S-steve said to kiss you.” He freezes as Bucky shifts in the chair and glowers up at him. 

“So?” asks Bucky, arm gesturing wide. “Nothing’s stopping you.”

Peter nods, a little frantically, and tells him. “I’m, I’m going to.”

“I’m not stopping you,” Bucky assures him shortly.

The problem, thinks Peter, is that he doesn’t, he doesn’t know how to. Some of his panic must telegraph on his face because Bucky says, “You need a little help, Angel?”

Peter feels his face blush bright red as he nods, biting his lip. 

“You ever tried to start up a kiss before, with anyone?” asks Bucky.

“Mr. Stark,” gasps Peter. “I, I sat on his lap, leaned in.” After that, it just kind of happened, though, so Peter sure hopes Bucky’ll know what to do.

“Well, I’ll allow it,” teases Bucky. “Climb on, you won’t crush me.”

Peter hesitates, and shoots Steve a glance over his shoulder. The man is standing, arms, crossed, and staring at them with a single-minded intensity. Peter swallows, and nods at him again, and then starts to slide onto Bucky’s lap the way he had on Mr. Stark’s. 

“Oh no,” laughs Bucky, “Not sweet side-saddle. If this is a thank you and an apology, you can ride western.” He pulls Peter to straddle him, one knee on either side, and then bucks up so that his crotch rubs tight against Peter’s ass once Peter is settled. “There we go,” he says, tilting his head up to look at Peter. “That’s nice.”

Peter licks his lips, because he has no idea what to do next. He thinks about glancing back at Steve, but then thinks better of it. He bites his lip again and Bucky says, “Angel, you’re making this into a three part act. Tilt yourself forward and get to work or Steve’ll get impatient and you’ll have lost your chance to seal his lips. He won’t offer twice.” 

Peter nods, earnestly, and then dips his head, pressing his lips to Bucky’s. For a moment, they’re frozen like that, Peter’s lips pressed chastely to Bucky’s. And then Bucky groans a little, and his tongue slides into Peter’s mouth, and Peter remembers this from Mr. Stark. He leans in a little, trying to find that right angle, the one Mr. Stark had held him at, and feels Bucky’s hands fly up to his hair, slide through it, to cup his head, switching the angle for Peter. Peter whimpers as Bucky takes over the kiss, his tongue teasing and wicked, plundering. “Shhh,” breathes Bucky, pausing, against his lips, “Shhh, Angel, just let me,” and then he’s back, his teeth and his tongue, his lips, back kissing Peter, stealing all Peter’s oxygen, making it so Peter can’t think.

The door opens and Peter tries to pull away, but Bucky’s hand in his hair, tongue in his mouth, keeps him in place, keeps him too busy to stop.

“Holy shit,” says Harley, sounding stunned. “You- I want in, me _ next_.” 

Bucky chuckles and releases Peter with a quick nip to his lips and a smirk. “All right, Hellcat, grab your angel, give us a show,” he says. Peter doesn’t have time to process those words before Harley is hauling him up by the collar of his shirt. 

“A show,” repeats Harley, with a wicked smile, turning Peter around and pressing him down into the couch. He climbs on top, a solid weight making it impossible for Peter to bolt, and rests his hands on Peter’s chest for a second. “Brother,” he says slowly, “the things I am going to do to you, in the name of family,” and that’s all the warning he gives before he launches forward and gives Peter full steam on a wet and sloppy kiss. Peter’s first protest is muffled into the kiss, and slowly slides into a moaning that doesn’t sound like a protest much at all.

Harley ends the kiss with a chuckle, and says against Peter’s lips, “Enough? More?”

“Never enough,” says Bucky, at the same time that Steve says, “Enough for now.”

Harley leans back and winks at Peter. “You’re sweet,” he declares. “Taste sweet, just like an angel should. What’ve you been up to all afternoon, got you tastin’ so sweet, baby brother?”

“Cookies,” declares Bucky authoritatively. “Gave him a close shave, Boss’s orders, figured it was traumatic enough he deserved cookies.”

“Tony said he shaved you himself, his own hand,” Harley tells Peter, confusion flitting across his features.

“Oh, not his face,” laughs Bucky. “Boss, you, _ he _ can shave his _ face_, if it needs it.”

“Noo,” drawls Harley, features lighting up in glee. He paws at Peter’s pants. “I wanna see. Let me-” he slaps at Peter’s hands as they slap at his, laughing. Steve wanders behind the couch and grabs hold of Peter’s hands, holding them up on either side of him, firmly. “Not nice to hit your brother,” he teases sternly, when Peter glares up at him, betrayed. 

Harley lays another kiss on Peter, like he can’t help himself, and Peter flushes, squirming in Steve’s tight grip. The man’s hands don’t even twitch, even when Peter pulls harder, but he does chuckle some, and that makes Peter flush up beet red and squirm some more. Harley’s quick fingers make fast work of the buttons as Steve leans over to watch, too. Peter looks up at him and Steve smiles back down sunnily, no evidence of strain as he hold Peter’s arms where he wants them. “Like to see Bucky’s workmanship, that’s all, Peter. Never seen that shaved before.”

Harley undoes the last button and shoves aside the trousers, and then shifts down the drawers, too. Steve and Harley both makes small noises of surprise in the back of their throats, and Bucky stands and walks over to look, too, face concerned. “What, did I miss a spot?” he asks.

“Nah,” says Harley, “Or, wait, let me check.” Peter twists in Steve’s grip, chest heaving again, shaking with humiliation as Harley laughs and runs his fingers under Peter’s dick, rubbing the skin of his scrotum and the crease of his thighs on both sides. “Feels good to me,” says Harley, sounding a little surprised. “Feels real good. Damn, Bucky, Steve, you seeing this?”

“Damndest thing,” agrees Bucky. “Boss came to me just before the judge got here, told me he wanted it done. Wasn’t going to argue, but-”

“Damndest thing,” agrees Harley, hand still shoved inside Peter’s pants, fingers tickling the skin and then he smiles up at Peter, wicked and delighted. “Here, let’s give ‘em a show, you hold him, Steve. Let me kiss up on him, see if we can make it twitch a little. Tony won’t mind that, ‘s’nothing he hasn’t already done.” Peter shakes his head and whimpers a little.

“None of that,” says Steve, shaking the arms he holds. “You be good, now. Give Bucky a show. Do what Harley wants. Give him a kiss and a twitch.”

Peter shakes his head, but Harley laughs and leans in. “C’mon, brother,” he whispers, “open just a little, just a little, let me in?” His fingers tickle the skin just behind Peter’s balls, rubbing lightly, gently. Peter shakes his head and Harley blows out a breath. “I’m asking nicely, but I don’t have ta, Angel,” Harley reminds him. “Pucker up or I might get annoyed with you. You won’t like that.”

Bucky chuckles, but Peter obediently tips his head back, offering up his lips. He doesn’t want _ anyone _ getting annoyed with him, he can do this, he can be good. Harley leans in and his tongue is the trickiest tongue Peter’s ever had in his mouth. It’s light and darting and strong, and for a moment there’s only the wet sound of Harley kissing Peter in the room, Harley’s hand shoved down Peter’s pants. Then Steve says, “All right, Hellcat, that’s enough, I can see him hot and twitching, time to stop before you get too far ahead of the boss.”

Harley leans back with a satisfied smirk, eyes still closed. He wiggles his fingers and laughs as Peter writhes a little, but then pulls his hand out. “Damndest thing,” he reports. “Never woulda thought of it myself but it’s perfect.”

“It is,” agrees Steve easily, releasing Peter’s wrists and leaning forward until his cheek is pressed against Peter’s. “Look at that pecker, too. You ever see one so nice and neat?” Peter tosses his head, but it just rubs his cheek against Steve’s. Steve takes it as an invitation to kiss his cheek, and Peter whimpers.

“I like it,” declares Harley. “Can’t wait until Tony’s had his fill of it and we can get some of our own in. Got such ideas for you two, you got no idea.”

Peter squirms, twisting on that thought, remembering Harley’s _ ideas _ for Tony from the night before. Harley laughs, riding the motion with ease. “Settle down,” he orders, slapping Peter on the torso just above where Harley’s knee rests beside him. “You’re my legal baby brother now, and that top bunk says I’m _ allowed_.” He presses one finger to the tip of Peter’s penis and applies pressure, laughing when it jumps. Peter grunts and then groans, he’s so embarrassed at his own responses.

“Okay, tuck him in, put it away,” says Steve, and Harley groans his disappointment. “You can look later,” Steve teases him. “All you want, big brother with rights.” Peter rolls his eyes, but Harley laughs and ducks to peck a kiss on his mouth again.

“Angel’s ours, now,” agrees Bucky, sliding a hand through Peter’s hair possessively. “Legal and everything. Got plenty of time, no rush.”

“Never had a brother before,” admits Harley, tracing Peter’s jaw with a light finger. “And I know this ain’t how you’re supposed to do it _ at all_,” he continues, nodding. “But I never can seem to get any of the virtues right. I gotta stick to vice, Angel. ‘S the only thing I’m ever any good at.”

“You can write your name,” Peter hears himself say. He sits up a little, begins re-buttoning the pants with shaky fingers. “And you got the times tables up through six. Not many to go after that.”

Harley’s eyes shine at him. “That’s true,” he concedes slowly.

“So maybe you’re _ gifted _ at vice, but you got some virtue in there,” Peter says quietly, with a calm he doesn’t feel.

Harley lifts Peter’s chin with careful fingers and asks Peter incredulously, “Are you trying to corrupt me to the _ angel _ side?”

Bucky and Steve both burst into laughter, and Steve’s voice is an approving rumble in Peter’s ear as he says, “It’d take a miracle.”

“I dunno,” says Harley slyly, “Nobody ever tried a shaved pecker on me before, maybe Angel’s onto something here.” Peter rolls his eyes expressively because none of that had been _ his _ idea.

Bucky and Steve laugh, and then Bucky pulls Harley off and Steve pushes Peter to stand. “C’mon,” chuckles Bucky. “Tea’s on in the Pepper suite and Angel will let you feed him cookies, he’s got a real sweet snap you’ll laugh about, Cat.” Peter shakes his head, which makes Bucky laugh and push Peter in front of him towards the connecting door.

The four men burst into the room laughing and joking, and Pepper and Natasha and Happy look up from where they’re seated on the couches, smiling warm welcomes. “Peter,” says Pepper, gesturing for him to come sit by her, which he does, quickly, because he’s pretty sure she’ll _ let him feed himself_. “Ford’s accountant got in touch with Coulson, you have made yourself a new best friend there. He’ll be by tomorrow afternoon to help us develop the pitch, but with his backing, it’ll be a cinch.” Peter nods and grabs for a cookie on the tray in front of them. Pepper makes a pleased noise as he nibbles it. 

“Where’s the boss?” asks Harley.

“Around, I think Natasha needed him,” responds Happy.

“Oh, ho ho,” laughs Harley. “Yeah, I bet. It’s been weeks.”

Peter blushes and nibbles his cookie, settling in closer to Pepper. She puts an arm around his shoulders and says, “It’s so good to be home. And now it feels like we’ve got the full set, doesn’t it, Harley?”

“Never expected to find an angel to match me,” agrees Harley, leaning forward to snag a cookie from the tray.

Pepper smiles widely at him, “One in a million chance. And finding one so well versed in the world’s doings, that’s a bonus just for me.”

“He comes with lots of bonuses,” says Harley wickedly. “Bucky was just showing me one.”

Peter glares at him as Pepper tightens her arms around his shoulders. “Enough teasing, boys,” she says. “Or should I say, ‘sons?’ Better get used to saying it that way,” she muses. “Sons, plural.”

Peter looks up at her and she smiles down at him. “Better get used to a lot of things,” she says happily. “Oh, Peter, I’m so glad you were waiting for us when we got home. Best surprise in years.”

Peter takes another cookie, just because he can, and tosses Bucky a haughty look so Bucky knows he’s taking it _ just because he can_. Bucky purses his lips back before smiling widely and adjusting his dick in his pants and Peter flushes. Point to Bucky, then, he thinks grumpily, leaning back into Pepper’s arm and nibbling on his cookie.

“So glad,” says Pepper brightly. “I’ll have a lot to say thank you for in my prayers tomorrow morning.”

Peter nibbles the cookie, looking absently around the room, gaze wandering as he relaxes. Pepper presses her lips to his temple in a quick kiss and sighs contentedly. He could get used to this, he thinks quietly, sitting and nibbling cookies with a gentle arm around his shoulders in the heat of the afternoon. 

“C’mon, Harleycat,” says Bucky, standing abruptly. “It’s too hot for clothes, let’s go swim.”

Harley whoops and leaps up, chasing him out of the room. Peter relaxes even more, because now it’s just him and Steve and Pepper, and even at his worst Steve’s still angel sided. He finishes off the cookie and Pepper makes a pleased noise. “Steve, do you think you could go fetch Peter his book from the library?” she asks. “We’ll head down to the arbor to escape some of this heat. Bring lemonade?”

“Yes, ma’am,” says Steve, standing with a smile. Pepper pushes Peter up, too, gently, and says, “Come, son, let me show you the best part of being a filthy rich Stark. Doing _ nothing _ on Saturday afternoon.”

Peter smiles at her and tucks her hand into his arm. “So happy you’re home,” she says again, and Peter smiles shyly back at her. 

“Me too,” he murmurs, because on balance, good with the bad, he’d do just about anything for this moment. Just about anything is worth this heady feeling of approval and affection. His dick feels weird in his drawers for reasons Peter couldn’t even begin to list, but he doesn’t let it bother him as he leads her downstairs, and then immediately needs her to guide him through the corridors to the right one. He’ll learn the layout this week, he decides, now that he’s up and walking. He’ll wander around, a Stark in the Stark mansion, and learn how all these rooms connect up. No one will stop him, he’s a Stark, and this is his home, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EVERYONE CAN THANK ASHBURK, because they noticed that I hadn’t posted this and bravely asked about it, unlike my Trouble series where everything is a goddamn mess, I was trying to keep this one straight and clean, with only completed works.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a link to the song in the title, if you want it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fy1iOmqH27Y
> 
> You can absolutely meet me in the comments section with ideas for future scenes and chapters in this AU. It's definitely very work-in-progress.


End file.
